Can't wait for the living room remodel's Big Reveal

Sunday

There’s a tarp slung over the piano, a mound of wood shavings piled in the dining room, and a layer of dust coating everything.

But I am not complaining. I repeat, I am not complaining.

At least not much.

We’re back in remodeling mode, after a break of a dozen years. Our tired living room is getting a long-overdue makeover. Fa-va-va-voom.

I’d forgotten how good remodeling can feel. Freshly cut wood smells like hope.The clang of a hammer sounds like a new beginning. Even an empty coffee cup, left behind by an absentminded worker, is a welcome sight.

Still, one major thing has changed in the past decade. My expectations.

Between 2001 — when we last did any major rehabbing — and now, my husband and I have watched approximately 8 million hours of remodeling TV. “I Hate My Bathroom,” “Kitchen Crashers,” “Rehab Addict” — the list goes on and on, even without including standbys like “This Old House.”

The DIY Channel and HGTV have, to put it mildly, flavored my expectations. I know TV isn’t real … and yet … somehow I’m expecting this project to take the shape of a 30-minute show.

On rehab programs, there’s always an attractive host. There’s always a clueless couple. There’s always a team of superhero contractors who descend on the project like The Avengers of home repair, and turn the lackluster, dated kitchen/bathroom/living room/man cave into a jaw-dropping work of art.

On TV, there’s always a tight deadline.

The contractor never leaves in the middle of the day to run to another job.

And there’s never a bill.

Sigh.

Instead of a dozen friends coming over for a jolly demolition party, we had a group of giggling teenagers writing graffiti on a wall, before it was covered over.

Instead of a semi-famous designer coming in with fancy plans, my husband and I trolled the Internet for ideas.

Instead of a voice-over explaining everything, we’ve got a testy husband going over the configuration of the bookcase for his wife, who has limited ability to envision spatial concepts, for the umpteenth time.

Speaking of the spouse, he’s spent almost every spare hour the last two weeks at Home Depot, fetching hinges, screws and electrical components. Because even if you have hundreds, you never have the right one.

Not like on TV.

“So, how long do you think it’s going to take?” I asked him at the end of last week, as we stood in a pile of wood shavings and dust and surveyed the living room, which looked a bit like London after the Blitz. “When do you think we’re going to see the Big Reveal?”

He gave me an odd look. “I don’t think there’s going to be a Big Reveal.”

“Sure there is. Forty-eight hours of feverish work, and then they lead us into the room blindfolded. Ta-da! The Big Reveal!”

“You’re joking, right?”

Well, yes. But there’s no harm in dreaming.

Especially if the TV host is super cute.

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